


chasing shadows

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, FC Barcelona, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 21:25:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12044589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: There really is no good way of asking a 20-year-old if he's afraid of thunder. So Sam doesn't even try.





	chasing shadows

**Author's Note:**

> who even am I without niche FC Barcelona pairings
> 
> written for the photo prompt of the football monthly challenge
> 
> title from Morcheeba's Enjoy the Ride

 

 

Sam snaps out of his half asleep state to a knock on the door of his hotel room. He blinks at the ceiling for a moment, thinking he’d imagined it, but then the knock comes again, fainter, with more hesitation. He looks at the clock as he stumbles to his feet. It’s ten in the evening. Too late for room service, or any other visitors.

 

He squints through the peephole and frowns, unlocking the door.

 

“Ous?” Sam asks, and Ousmane jolts, looking up from the floor. “What’s up?”

 

“Sorry,” Ousmane says in a rush, “sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I just...no, sorry, I’ll just go.”

 

Ousmane isn’t a shy kid usually. Sam has never seen him like this, terrified and nervous. He worries.

 

“No, it’s okay,” he says, as gently as he can manage, “come on in, it’s alright.” He steps aside, and Ousmane looks on the verge of fleeing, but he comes in anyway, his head ducked, and his shoulder pressing against Sam’s as he passes him by.

 

Sam eases the door closed and follows. 

 

The room that Sam’s staying in is nice. Hotel rooms are always nice if you’re traveling on FC Barcelona’s budget. There is a huge TV and a double bed, and Ousmane is standing by the gilded writing desk, looking lost, even though his room must look pretty much the same.

 

It feels awkward to have them both standing, so Sam crosses the room to sit back on the bed. He’s got the TV muted, playing a random football match. Serie A, he thinks, not live, but a replay.

 

Ousmane fiddles with the hotel stationery on the desk. He picks up a pen and clicks it open, then shut, like he’s forgotten all about Sam’s existence.

 

“Ous?” Sam prompts him, carefully. “What’s wrong?”

 

Ousmane shakes his head, spinning the pen in his hands. He won’t look at Sam. “It’s really nothing,” he says, “I shouldn’t have come here. I probably woke you up, sorry.”

 

Sam tries to read him but the only thing he has to go on is his profile illuminated by the lone bedside lamp. “You can always come to me if you need something,” is what he settles on saying. “I’m always here to help.”

 

Ousmane laughs a little and looks up finally. “‘I’m always here to help,’” he repeats after Sam, a note of mocking in his voice. “Who even says things like that?”

 

“I do,” Sam says, steadily. “And I mean it.”

 

Ous doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with that. As if he’s unused to people saying things like these with sincerity. “I…” he starts.

 

There’s a loud rumble of thunder from the brewing storm outside. Ousmane yelps and drops the pen. It rolls on the carpet somewhere under the desk. There’s lightning strike right after the first, and this time the thunder is nearer, and Ousmane flinches, clenching his fists. 

 

There really is no good way of asking a 20-year-old if he’s afraid of thunder. So Sam doesn’t try.

 

“Why don’t you sit down?” he says instead, patting the space next to him on the bed. Ousmane looks at him, and then at the space. He’s sweating now and his eyes are huge and luminous in his face. He nods.

 

He sits down next to Sam at a careful distance and Sam withholds a sigh. He raises the volume on the TV instead, just so Ousmane won’t be pressured to talk.

 

“What are we watching?” he asks after a minute.

 

“Football,” Sam shrugs and Ousmane snorts.

 

“Yeah, I can see that,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not like I haven’t played it before.”

 

“I don’t know, you looked pretty lost on that second corner last weekend,” Sam says, grinning to take the sting out of his words.

 

“You’re one to talk,” Ousmane frowns at him, “Ter Stegen yelled at you at halftime in the locker room.”

 

Sam shrugs. “He didn’t really mean it,” he says, “the German just likes to yell at someone sometimes.”

 

“He doesn’t yell at Masche.”

 

“Would you want to yell at Masche?” 

 

Ousmane looks like he’s about to reply, but another bout of thunder cuts him off, and he yelps, moving closer to Sam. He checks immediately if Sam is going to say something about it, but Sam keeps his eyes carefully glued to the TV and Ousmane apparently feels reassured enough to scoot a little closer.

 

Without taking his eyes off the TV, Sam stretches his arms over his head. “That was a great free kick,” he says, and when Ousmane turns to the TV, he lets his arm drop to the headboard behind Ousmane’s shoulders. 

 

It takes a couple more minutes and thunder claps for Ousmane to put his head on Sam’s shoulder. Sam carefully curls his arm around him and pulls him closer. Ousmane doesn’t even make it till the end of the game, he’s out like a light. 

 

Thunder has given way to rain, falling softly against the hotel window. Between the sound and the warm weight of Ousmane’s head on his shoulder, Sam feels himself getting sleepy. It’s all he can do to turn off the TV and the bedside lamp before he falls asleep too.

 

*

 

Sam wakes up sometime in the middle of the night, his feet chilly and his mouth feeling like something died in there. Ousmane is still breathing evenly next to him. They’ve shifted while asleep, slipping down onto the pillows, Sam’s front to Ousmane’s back. 

 

Sam kicks the duvet up over them, pulls Ousmane closer and falls back to sleep.

 

*

 

Sam wakes up in the morning to Ousmane attempting to ease out from under his arm. He keeps his eyes closed and his breathing as even as possible to not spook him.

 

There’s a moment of silence and Sam can imagine him, silhouetted against the morning light, contemplating his next move.

 

The bed dips. Ousmane very carefully touches Sam’s hair, petting it clumsily. Sam doesn’t move, though he’s very tempted to smile.

 

Ousmane moves away and Sam hears his footsteps and then the click of the door opening and closing. Sam opens his eyes, squinting at the gray morning light and finally allows himself to smile.

 

The streets and buildings outside the hotel window are darkened by the rain, tentatively drying in the weak morning sunlight. There’s still a few hours left until he has to be up for breakfast. He reaches for Ousmane’s pillow, hugs it to his chest and goes back to sleep.

  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Do not yell at Javier Mascherano. I cannot stress this enough, don't do it, you will die.


End file.
